


Sisters

by the_diversionist



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: F/F, Hawkecest, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-21
Updated: 2016-08-21
Packaged: 2017-12-30 01:43:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1012532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_diversionist/pseuds/the_diversionist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An insouciant Hawke and her more gifted sister, Bethany, turn to each other after the death of their father. Bethany x f!Hawke</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Leandra kneels by his deathbed, hands clasped around his thin, knobby one. He is only a shadow of the man he was before the sickness took him. The only thing that remains is the anger, the disapproval. Another cough racks his body and he tips to the side, the handkerchief Leandra pushes at him coming back red. His brow furrows and though he is thin and skeletal now, he is defiant, resentful of the sickness that has claimed his once young and strong body.

Carver leans by the door, face all scrunched up, fighting tears that already flow freely down Leandra's face. The sick room he's in was once Bethany’s. Once it became clear that he needed attending to night and day she had given it up, agreeing to share with Marian who was indifferent at having to share. Bethany's room was bright and warm before. Now it's dark and dank, stuffy and cold, with a bitter smell in the air.

'Oh, darling’ Leandra says. She says it over and over again like a parrot. Bethany wonders if her father wants something more, especially now. But what can she say? Bethany’s mouth feels as if it’s been stuffed with straw. She can hardly think of words outside of ’please, please’ and ’don’t die'.

Marian mostly looks tired and blank, reclining against the writing station, littered with tomes, littered with memories of lessons both girls had to withstand. Malcolm was an effective teacher but he did not suffer mistakes kindly. Marian took the brunt of it. She looks the same way she does in the Chantry, as if she’s somewhere else, wishing she were someone else, were anywhere else.

Bethany catches her eye but Marian shifts her weight and watches the sad scene. Their father has another coughing fit. He looks at Marian. He gives her a list of chores that must be done. "They're your responsibility now. Make something of yourself at last, won't you?"

Leandra tries to reassure him. Bethany waits for words that don't come. Malcolm looks at Marian as if she is a disappointment but he does look at her.

"I’ll take care of things, Father. Don’t worry." She sounds rehearsed. She stares through him. When he dies, Leandra wails. Carver runs away, slamming doors behind him. Bethany watches Leandra throw herself on top of Malcolm, muttering words that are incomprehensible.

Marian runs the tips of her fingers over Bethany's hair before squeezing her shoulder. She pulls her gently when Bethany remains catatonic and unresponsive

 *

Leandra is attended to by the hens of Lothering while Carver rips at his ruffled shirt and ill-fitting dress jacket, worn at the elbows and heads off to get sloshed.

Bethany’s mourning dress is hiked up to her waist, Marian’s fingers curling inside of her when Marian goes limp, slumping against her.

They haven't finished yet. This is new for them but Bethany knows that. Marian had hardly said a word about their father’s passing. Her wet, hot lips are to Bethany’s neck as she takes a painful gulp of air.

Bethany is perfectly still, her fingers having slowed through Marian’s hair, as opposed to the franticness they previously gripped her with. Bethany notices that the room feels cold. Everything feels cold. She notices with the cessation of Marian’s heated actions.

"There's so much to do," Marian says fitfully. "I'm an apostate. We both are. I don't have a trade. How can I take care of us? Maker. Mother’s losing it and Carver is so angry. I can't do this. I can't do this."

"Look at me." Bethany commands. She's sixteen years old but has an imperial presence. Marian looks at her, sapphire eyes glossier than Bethany can ever remember. "You can do this. I won’t be a burden. I’ll help. Father was wrong. It’s not all up to you."

They hear a noise from outside the bedroom and they both freeze. Bethany is pressed to the wall and turns her head listen. She listens for what seems like forever but hears nothing more.

"I'm cold," she whispers to Marian apologetically. The window is being dusted with snow. It had taken forever to dig a large enough hole for the burial plot during such a cold season, but all three Hawkes worked diligently until the task was accomplished. Bethany thinks their father would have taken issue with any unevenness to the rectangular hole they dug out.

Marian’s fingers slowly withdraw, leaving Bethany stinging and empty. Bethany hates being without her touch. They had both been so nervous in the beginning. They'd only ever had each other. It hurt and then it didn't. Now he’s dead and the Hawke sisters bury themselves in each other. "I’ll get you a blanket."

And she does, wrapping it around her shoulders, rubbing her arms. Bethany discreetly pulls her dress down and dismisses Marian’s apologies. They sit on Marian’s small bed, feeling sad and sorry, sticky fingers absently twined.

Bethany wonders if Marian thinks of how much less they've cried than their mother and brother and if so, does she feel guilty for it?

 *

Carver trains to become a soldier. It seems a good match for him. His anger and sometimes, Bethany suspects, hatred for his sisters has grown since their father died without even an acknowledgment of his one non-mage child. Every word he says towards them is brittle and charged. Bethany begs him not to go but he goes.

Marian shrugs away any feelings she might have about his chosen path—Bethany suspects Marian is only grateful to keep one of their housemates at bay. Carver had always barged into rooms without announcing himself and had nearly caught the sisters a handful of times. They separate when they're nearly discovered but it's only so long before an embrace turns into a caress, a kiss to the cheek slipping downward to a yearning, eager mouth.

Sometimes Bethany thinks it’s how they stay alive. Their mother has become a live doll. Blinking and unsettling at times, breaking into tears and sobs. Bethany tries to comfort her but Marian slowly becomes impatient with her. "She acts as if she's the only one who lost him," Marian snaps when Bethany questions her.

Bethany isn't sure what Marian mourns. It goes further than their father. Something maybe. Something untouchable. Bethany wonders if Marian can feel him now that he's gone, the power of the back of his hand. Strong for a mage. Marian is strong too but lacks a certain finesse. She's a jack-of-all-trades. Bethany can't see that as a bad thing, but she can remember her father’s words long ago: someone who is skilled at a little of everything is talented at nothing.

"What are you thinking about?" Marian asks her.

They're curled up beneath the blankets, Bethany tucked into Marian’s arm. Marian’s days of work are long. She does farming and repair work for the Lothering residents from dawn till dusk and returns exhausted and worn. It isn’t fair that he can intrude on their little time together. Bethany hates when her thoughts get dark and fill her with doubts, his doubts. "Do you think Father’s with the Maker?"

A long silence follows during which Marian tightens her hold around Bethany’s shoulders. They turn to face each other, so close their bellies press together. "I try not to think of him."

Bethany wants clarification on which 'him’ she refers to but can't bring herself to ask, any answer seeming unbearable.

*

Marian continues to juggle financial matters. She takes on odd little jobs, unimpressive things to secure coin. She never speaks of them to Bethany, even after being gone for hours at a time, the details seeming to bore her as much as the work. Always she is indifferent.

Bethany, on the other hand, has inadvertently been charged with the emotional well-being of her mother, a more taxing and difficult task than going out and doing 'mindless' work.

Always she must be close to her mother. Bethany takes her tomes with her, lest her mother become overwhelmed by the silence. Marian’s absence grates Leandra but Bethany doesn't think it has anything to do with the work she must now take on, the unfair responsibility that has been thrust upon Marian—but a sense that she is being ignored in this difficult time.

Bethany would never voice the thought, nor would she admit that she agrees Marian is gone longer than she needs to be at times.

With Carver’s absence, Leandra becomes more despondent, more prone to fits of tears and anger. How could that boy leave, after their father has just gone? How can he risk himself and put her through so much after she’s just lost everything?

Bethany only has so many words. She’s young but doesn't think there's anything she can say or do outside of bringing her father and brother back from where they went.

Sometimes Leandra, sniffling and with red-rimmed eyes will put bread on a plate in front of Bethany when she studies. "Those are healing spells?" She asks, brushing her fingers along the corners of the page. "Have you studied them long?"

"Not long."

Bethany sees the lines mark her mother's brow. "And Marian hardly does any studying at all," she laments. The words strike her as more her father’s than her mother’s.

Bethany doesn’t point out that there are only so many hours of the day. She knows that anything she could say to defend Marian will be taken as an argument. There's some part of her mother, Bethany suspects, that resents her and Marian for not being able to save him.

*

Marian has never feared the Templars. If anything, she regards them with a sliver of disdain but mostly indifference. Their father spoke of them heatedly in the past, not sheltering them from the abuses experienced at their hands.

His stories made Bethany afraid of them. Marian thinks them bullies. She can be reckless, Bethany thinks, when she stares them down defiantly. But Marian is older and maybe it's brave of her to not be afraid.

Maybe Marian’s courage comes from forgetting, every now and then, that she's an apostate. With their father gone she no longer studies diligently. She always found it a bit of a chore, those forced lessons with unforgiving reprimands. Bethany thinks of years ago when Marian sent an errant fireball into the wall in the middle of the night. Malcolm insisted there would be no sleep until she mastered the ability.

Marian had been either bored or tired— Bethany can't remember now, Marian had been as old as she is, making Bethany around eight or nine at the time. Malcolm took Marian tightly by the wrist, squeezing until she cried out and tears brimmed her eyes. "Are you trying to get us all killed?" Marian said something smart in response and earned herself another smack. She didn't apologize.

Bethany can't shake the thoughts. It's rare that lay sister Leliana’s stories aren't enough to distract her. The ginger woman has kind eyes filled with such sadness that Bethany can't help but feel sorry and angry for whatever past hurt the woman experienced.

"Your thoughts must be heavy indeed if I can't entertain my most devoted listener." Her fingers ease a lock of hair behind Bethany’s ears. Her cheeks foolishly heat at the contact and being called on her inattentiveness. "Unless I am losing my touch?" The question is asked teasingly, a smile glimmering on her lips, eyes bright and playful.

Somehow Bethany thought chantry sisters would be more dour, older, stale. "I didn't mean to be rude."

"Not at all. I'm flattered that you come every time— even if you're not in the mood." She giggles at this before clearing her throat. Bethany is sure she's missed something. "Have you heard from little Carver?"

Carver, who is big and strapping, taller than Leliana by two heads and strong as an ox, would be mortified to be described that way. He had spoken ’admiringly’ of Leliana in the past. "Nothing yet." She begins to wring her hands without knowing it. A templar is watching them closely but Bethany isn't sure if it’s that or Carver’s health being in danger that frays at her nerves.

"You must be so worried. And your mother." She runs a comforting hand along the back of Bethany’s head to her back. "This must be a very difficult time. I will continue to pray for you and your family. The Maker will watch over you."

No sooner has she said the words than Marian appears, settling a hand on Bethany’s shoulder. "Here you are."

Marian’s cheeks are smudged with dirt. Bethany wonders what job she’s finished. A job their mother would find too demeaning to take on. Leandra never ceases to tell them of the days when she was a noble, before Marian was born and she had it all.

Marian’s voice is pure and clear but Bethany knows she's let her down. Marian disapproves of the chantry. ’Bunch of hypocrites is what they are’. She calls it a business, some soul business. A racket.

Bethany’s cheeks burn again, this time with shame.

*

They were homeschooled. They weren't the only family to do it and a town like Lothering it wasn't uncommon. It could be done without accruing suspicion. Their mother taught them more conventional things: arithmetic, spelling and reading, writing, history. That went on for hours and while Carver was mercifully allowed the rest of his day for play and his own devices, Bethany and Marian had additional learning to do over the arcane arts.

Marian had a talent for simplifying matters for Bethany so she could better grasp the material. Their father was grudgingly grateful for her ability to do this—magic came so easily to him that he had difficulty breaking it down to its rawest form.

But Marian was a disappointment in other ways. She never cast spells as gracefully as their father would have liked. They lacked power. Her lacking shamed Malcolm— but Marian, who was ambivalent on better days, never let it get to her. She never showed it, anyway.

Luckily for her (or unluckily, Bethany still isn't sure) Bethany had an aptitude for magic. At all times she felt it flowing through her, a trilling, fearsome current, more vivid and alive than any blood running through her veins. Their father compared their magical prowess, often in front of one another, pitting them against each other, hoping to foster some competition or rivalry between them.

It made Bethany anxious but Marian refused to let it rile her. ‘I won't be involved in his stupid games.’

For while Carver had the opportunity to meet other children his age and play, Marian and Bethany only had each other. As a result, when their father died, they know no one in town, have little understanding of social customs and are marked as some unknown others.

Bethany knows the Chantry and Leliana because her parents brought her there throughout the years to appear devout, to not call unwanted attention.

Marian’s arms snake around her waist. Bethany stills as Marian presses to her back. "Mother’s asleep," Marian tells her and with that Bethany relaxes, melting against Marian despite the knife she holds and the potatoes that need peeling before her. "You're cooking again."

"Someone has to." This is the rare day in which Marian has not found work. Though her sister stresses and worries when it happens, Bethany is happy to have some time with her.

"You do everything around here."

"You work near every hour of the day."

"She should do something. He died. Not her. Not us."

Bethany doesn't want to fight about it. She sets the knife down and wipes her hands, starchy and dry on the apron she wears. "Why don't you study anymore?" She regrets the question as soon as she's asked it. This one is more likely to elicit a reaction.

"It was always what he wanted. Not what we wanted. We weren't allowed lives or opinions. I did it for years before you were born. He’s dead. We don't need to waste our lives on that drivel anymore."

Bethany faces her and takes Marian’s face in her hands. Marian’s breaths are too slow, too long, too controlled. She’s never allowed herself to raise her temper at Bethany. "I’m glad to see you today." Hear her voice, not just feel her presence and touch in the dark. "What manner of work do you do?" Marian still hasn’t told her.

"I've been learning to make traps. Little things. Unscrupulous things," she smiles.

"Unscrupulous, hm? I don't think Mother would approve." It's a joke but in case Marian has doubts, Bethany softens the words with a kiss. Marian returns it softly and then ferocious and eager when it becomes clear their mother won't be waking any time soon.

Bethany’s heart flutters against her chest as Marian turns her forward again, her hand slipping beneath the apron, torturing along the inside of her thigh before Bethany takes the hand, guiding it where she wants it. No matter her attempts in the early morning hours when Marian is gone and their mother has yet to rise, is she able to replicate the abundance of feelings and heat that floods her when Marian takes her into her hands.

 *

Carver returns from Ostagar. Blood mats his hair, his normally sullen, angry face twisted with panic. It’s the Blight. There is no happy reunion.

The sky is dotted with black clouds, a humid, yellow tinge to the air. Leandra clasps her hands to her face as if doing so will keep the horrible truth at bay.

Leandra searches the home for scraps of memories, desperate for some souvenir to survive. At her urging, Bethany helps her gather some small items but Marian and Carver soon urge them out of the home.

Foul beasts, not quite men, resembling drawings in some of the texts she's studied throughout the years pour into Lothering, shrieking and wielding weapons, they begin to hack the villagers into pieces.

Bethany drops the items she carries. "We have to go," she tells her mother. How her voice shakes!

"Everything we worked for," Marian says bitterly. She urges the others ahead and Bethany takes her staff. Marian leaves hers behind to burn, as if who she is and all of that history can be taken by the licking flames and the plumes of smoke, by the black that spreads over the village.


	2. Chapter 2

Marian has a scar along her cheeks and the bridge of her nose, the result of some darkspawn blade when they fled Lothering. They're indentured servants now; practically slaves for a smooth-talking elf named Athenril.

Their mother is distraught. The Maker must have some sense of humor. First they lose their father, then their home, then their brother and any small strength her mother had recuperated is gone again.

Gamlen squandered the family fortune. Now they live in squalor in a city full of templars. They share a room that is tight and small with thin wooden walls, flaking and splintering, riddled with holes that render the room frigid at night and fill it with the thick, dry smell of coal.

Leandra blames Marian for not saving Carver. Marian was huddled over his corpse when Leandra launched the accusation. Marian, face still bleeding, only flinched and then shrunk at the words.

With no staff, her spells had been weaker than Bethany’s and despite an unpredictability to her attacks with daggers, she is not sufficiently trained to be untouchable. She incurred several bruises and scrapes fighting to escape the Blight. Even now she has a limp she tries to hide.

They've been in Kirkwall only days and Marian’s tired and unenthused about what their year of servitude will bring. She hasn't talked about Carver and Bethany wishes to speak of him.

They’d never been as close to him as they had been to each other. When it was discovered that Bethany too was an apostate, their father doted on her and ignored Carver. Marian, sensing how difficult her life would soon be, took her under her wing and cared for her as if she were some tiny bird.

They were twins. They should have been closer. Given the circumstances it was impossible it'd play out in any other way. Their parents were overprotective, seldom letting the sisters wander out on their own, fearing the Templars. They had only each other. They were jealous of Carver and his freedom. His determination to be his own man, to be a hero may have ultimately been what killed him.

Bethany bites her hand to stifle the sob threatening to loose from her. She can hear her mother crying in the room over. She cried in the hold for the weeks it took to reach Kirkwall.

Marian, perhaps still mulling Leandra’s charge, made no attempts to comfort her and it was once again, Bethany’s responsibility to see to their mother’s emotional needs.

The room is quiet except for the poor fire that cracks and the whistling wind. Bethany forces herself to swallow hard and bury her sorrow. She rises, climbing Marian’s bunk and touching her face.

The cut that cleaves into it is hot and throbbing. Marian doesn't look at her. She hasn't for weeks now and Bethany wonders if she believes she's responsible for Carver’s death. The warmth in her eyes has faded to something glossy and dull since he died. "I can’t sleep."

"Try harder."

Bethany flushes at the reprimand. It comes unexpectedly and, she thinks, unnecessarily. Does she remind Marian of him? "I can hear her through the walls." Marian looks at her. "I can't stand it another night."

Marian sits up. "Get dressed." She's already climbing down when the words sink in. It wasn’t what Bethany expected but she dutifully follows, hastily dressing and exiting out the bedroom door with Marian.

Gamlen is at the table, a bottle clenched in his hand, despite the late hour. He looks at them blearily, the bags under his eyes appearing to have grown since their arrival. "Where are you going?" He slurs. "Have any coin for your favorite uncle?"

"Sod off, old man," Marian says, causing Gamlen to scowl and Bethany to wince apologetically.

Their uncle is a strange man. He lives like a vagabond. Marian tells her he spent their coin on whores but Bethany doesn't know who’d take his coin. The way he looks at she and Marian makes her hair stand on end, causing her to go prickly.

They're outside and away from his gaze soon enough and Bethany is grateful. Still, Kirkwall is large and like no other place she’s ever been. And the Templars, so many templars.

Marian takes her hand and leads her. Men and women catcall the sisters, offering their services, eyeing them dangerously but they move too quickly to be bothered.

The night air pierces into her and before she knows it, they're inside what looks like an abandoned warehouse, a rusted, heavy door closing with a boom behind them.

They scout the place and discover no one. Bethany is ready to ask for what purpose she’s been brought here when Marian kisses her hard and deep.

It's been weeks but has felt like years. Throughout the years Bethany found solace in Marian time and time again. Her recent distance has left Bethany feeling abandoned, alone to contend with her sorrow. Gamlen is indifferent, Aveline has her own loss to mourn and their mother is just... their mother.

"It has killed me being apart from you," Marian breathes. Bethany is elated, having become afraid that Marian had changed her mind about them.

Together they strip Bethany of her clothing and Marian drinks her in, never having the opportunity to before. Years have passed and she’s grown taller, her figure becoming hourglass, her breasts becoming fuller. For the first time they don’t have a family presence looming by. Bethany wonders if it makes Marian feel as happy and guilty as she does.

Marian kisses every piece of her that is exposed. They left Lothering near three weeks ago and in that time Bethany has felt terror, anguish and a desperate need to control herself and not add to Leandra and Marian’s stress. Now, here, experiencing something good in a world that has felt as if it only has tragedy to offer, she breaks.

Marian ceases her attentions promptly, bewildered. Bethany apologizes and tries to explain she's relieved, that she can breathe again, that she can take gulps of breath into her lungs for the first time since fleeing Lothering.

Marian takes a hold of Bethany’s face. She attempts to stall her tears, to get her to still and quiet but Bethany can't contain herself. She looks at her sister through a veil of tears. Marian’s eyes have a sheen to them and when she speaks she sounds half-manic. "I would have died if it’d been you," her fingers squeeze too tightly, "I would have let that bloody ogre end it all."

They clutch to one another, Bethany naked and shaking, relieved and heartbroken, feeling much the same but not wanting to offend Carver’s spirit, to confirm the truth he always stated but never wanted to believe.

It's the first and last time Marian speaks of it.

*

Bethany forces the meeting, unsettled that they allowed a cartel to pay their way into the city and haven't made good on their promise to meet with Athenril and get work. Marian is reluctant to go, but Bethany, knowing she can deny her nothing, moves ahead with the plan.

The elf is tall for her kind with an air of no-nonsense to her, blue tendrils curl around her arm and Bethany, who has never seen such markings before stares longer than she should.

Athenril is direct about some things, evasive about others. Her tone is clipped. She is incapable of mincing words. Her green eyes are the darkest Bethany has seen on any elf, her angular jaw stiff as she outlines the jobs that need doing. It seemed smart to go to her and not Meeran. Smuggling doesn't hurt anyone- not really, anyway and Bethany didn't feel comfortable doing something that would require both she and Marian to wield magic.

‘Magic must serve what is best in me, not that which is most base’. Bethany remembers the words, though whenever she thinks of mentioning them aloud in some moral reminder to the both of them, Marian rolls her eyes. ‘I suppose fists are for serving what's base.’ When Bethany tries to touch her reassuringly, only able to guess at what's brewing beneath the surface, Marian dodges the contact.

"So two apostates," Athenril says, arms crossed, regarding them. Marian sits on a crate, swinging her legs, not appearing to pay attention, "you’re going to be good for business—assuming you’ve got skill."

"We do," Bethany says quickly, eager to show her they're more than qualified.

What happens if they aren't? Does Athenril toss them out of the city or does she run to the Templars? "Our father was in the Circle. He taught us everything we know. And we fought darkspawn on the way here." She looks at Marian to back her up but Marian continues to swing her legs, head bowed. The scar on her face makes her look sharper.

"You’ll be good for business," there is a sliver of approval in her voice but it doesn't manifest on her face, a face that hints that it could never really be impressed by anything, a face that says it has seen everything and come away disappointed. "Which one of you is the stronger mage? I'm assuming the older one?"

"I have a name," Marian says but doesn't correct her. Bethany thinks it strange that she thinks Athenril needs correcting. She bites her tongue.

"Something you need to say, little Hawke?" Athenril fixes Bethany in her piercing gaze, held as if in the clutches of a bird of prey. Bethany’s mouth goes dry but seeing that Marian is looking at her, shakes her head. Athenril laughs, light and mocking. "You two really are a pair of country bumpkins, aren't you? Kirkwall will make all that wide-eyed wonder go away quick. Trust me."

"I assume we’re finished here?" Marian says and doesn't wait for Athenril to respond before exiting the small concrete safe house.

The wooden door cracks open with a gust of wind before slamming shut again. Bethany buries the toe of her boot into the ground and readies to follow her when Athenril grabs her arm. Her grip is surprisingly strong and Bethany can feel each digit buried into her flesh. "I didn't bring you two into this operation out of the goodness of my heart."

"You don't say." Bethany tries to pull her arm free but Athenril holds tight, stepping closer, looking up at her.

"Your sister thinks this is a joke. I’d tell you to ask what happens to the men and women who take this work lightly but they aren't around anymore. You seem like a smart girl so I'm fairly sure you've caught my drift."

"I’ll handle Marian. You’ll get your coin. Trust me."

"Yeah, fat chance," she releases her. "Get going, little Hawke before big sister comes in here with a lot of attitude and I have to be down an apostate."

*

Marian prefers the quieter jobs while Bethany has a preference for the flair of excitement. It must be part of Carver. There are parts of her that must be him, just as she is sure that her own propensity towards uncertainty and fear fueled some of his more hostile moments. It's not fair that he got the short end of the stick. Bethany always pretends to be brave when she is most afraid.

She listens to the tumblers of the lock as Marian kneels in front of the door, the moonlight shining down on her expressionless face, focused all the same. When the lock comes open, Bethany smiles and enters the warehouse, appearing more satisfied than Marian at the feat.

This must be some of the work that Marian did back in Lothering. Though it seemed to bring her satisfaction then, it no longer looks as if it does. To Bethany, the art of unlocking doors with simple instruments is more fascinating than magic itself.

There are muffled voices in the distance and Bethany feels energy course through her at the promise of danger. Marian’s expression seems to deaden before going flat. "Do you think there are many of them?" Bethany asks.

Marian bottles what she was ready to say, stooping beside another door and spotting a small wire that Bethany hadn’t seen. "Get back," Marian tells her quietly and Bethany does, watching as Marian carefully cuts the string, her face pale and sweaty before setting it down. Nothing happens. Marian exhales slowly. "Trap," she tells her.

Bethany nods and puts her ear to the door. They're meant to be recovering some Antivan cargo. Athenril didn't tell them what it was and reminded her, with a pinch to the ear, to not ask questions. Bethany hopes it’s sweets. Something flaky and buttery, filled with a soft jam. But how long would something like that hold and why would Athenril want it?

"Let’s not kill them if we don’t have to," Bethany whispers but Marian shakes her head. Bethany isn't sure if Marian agrees or disagrees.

"If we’re fighting they have to die. We’re apostates, remember?"

"And you the better one," Bethany helpfully reminds her.

Marian scowls and bursts through the door, Bethany on her heels. Bethany spots four of them immediately and points her staff, raining down fireballs as the men scramble to get clear, yowling as the fire begins to eat their clothing and burn their flesh.

Marian dodges one swipe of a cutlass and then another, jabbing a hand out to send one of the men stumbling back into a pillar before she grips her dagger securely and takes a mean swing, disemboweling him in an instant.

Her triumph is short-lived as an Antivan assassin sneaks up behind her, out of the smoke. Bethany shouts and it’s enough warning to save Marian, but not spare her from the plunging of the blade into her side. She swings back her elbow, catching his arm, turning and dodging his attack. When he advances again, he's flung aside by another of her blasts. Marian’s nose and side bleed. Bethany shoots out a lance of ice that strikes the attacker squarely in the forehead. His hands absently come up before he crumples to the ground.

Marian makes a small sound and huddles into herself before dropping to one knee. Bethany races over, her heartbeat drowning all sounds. "Let me see, let me see," Bethany says anxiously. She refuses to let Marian put her off and yanks at the black leather belts of her light armor. Truthfully, she’s never seen so much of her sister. Her skin is alabaster but Bethany has never pressed naked to it, had never tasted her under her tongue.

This is the first time she sees her, her breasts are bound but she can see their soft curves. Bethany can't focus on that now. She steels herself and looks down at her sister’s side and pales. Blood spills heavily down her side, muscles and flesh torn apart. Tears bead in her eyes but Marian refuses to let them run down her face. She grimaces, no doubt biting her tongue.

"I can take care of this," Bethany says but she isn't sure that she can. She's never healed something like this, a wound that is potentially fatal. Marian apologizes, guttural and pained but Bethany shakes her head. "I'm going to squeeze hard," Bethany puts her hand to Marian’s side that is slick and hot and throbbing. Marian shakes, her breath coming faster than Bethany’s heartbeat. She looks pale and cold.

Bethany is grateful she focused on healing spells. Their father never taught them but Bethany was always keenly interested in the subject. Maybe this is how mages can redeem themselves. The Chantry says that magic is to serve man. What better way to serve than to heal? What better good to do? Why use it only to hurt when it could save? Of course, Marian wouldn't be interested in any of that. Bethany thinks some part of her would be offended at being used like a tonic.

Bethany’s hand goes hot. It always feels as if the full force of the sun is hitting it when she heals. Marian makes small, gasping sounds like a fish that’s been thrown onto shore and can't get any air. Like some creature that's dying.

Bethany takes a gulping breath as if having plunged into an icy abyss. Her side feels as it is being sliced into. It burns and Marian tries to pull away from her but Bethany doesn't let her.

Bethany tries to stifle any sound and unable to, sinks her teeth into Marian’s shoulder as she has before during more torrid nights to not wake any in the household.

Marian’s breath, quick and hot makes Bethany flush and heat, pool like lava at her center. It’s perverse. She’s perverse to feel that way now. When she’s finished, there's a stitch at her side and the half-circle of her teeth, little grooves buried into Marian’s shoulder.

 They get up, ignoring the bodies and blood, the smell of burning flesh and go to the crates, sealed with mark of Antiva. Marian is still sweaty, her side wet with blood. Bethany is having difficulty drawing full breaths.

They open one of the crates. Perfumes and jewels. Marian opens a vial of perfume, the sweet, enticing scent coiling out. She extends it tiredly to Bethany, who is tempted, especially given the foul stench to the air. There is something she needs to say but isn't sure she has the necessary words. Marian had already moved on to another crate. Bethany follows her. "I know you hated him." Marian stops her search mid-crate and looks at her. "But you can’t leave me alone. You cannot leave me alone. I don't know what I’d do." Marian resumes her search through the boxes. "Be careful."

It's advice. Guidance. Bethany tells herself she isn’t begging.

 


	3. Chapter 3

"You don't smell like wet dog like most Fereldans," Athenril tells her. Bethany thinks it’s meant to be a compliment. "Lighten up, kid. It’s a joke." But something about the pause between the two statements makes Bethany think it’s said more for her benefit than an earnest apology. "Elves have a nose for these things," she says tapping her nose, "even us lowly city-elves. Your standing is about as good as mine in Kirkwall." Bethany hadn’t known Fereldans were perceived so poorly in Kirkwall. Why oh why did her mother insist they come? "Big sis know you’re here?"

Marian is at Gamlen’s resentfully buried in spell tomes. Bethany’s rarely hesitated to speak the truth but she finds herself tongue-tied at having to voice it so she doesn't. Athenril cocks an eyebrow but sets about collecting a handful of empty bottles that litter her table. Athenril’s place is small and hidden away but it is better than Gamlen’s place; it’s tidy, free of dust and immaculately kept. There are a few simple items, ornaments, Bethany thinks, meant for decoration. There’s a bound leather book, its corners worn from frequent touching, the spine cracked and creased. Is it where she keeps jobs, Bethany wonders? Or inventory? Athenril strikes her as the sort of woman to keep records on everything. "I forgot how to get here."

"You’ll forget how to get back."

Athenril told her once how to find her if it was an emergency. She told her and Marian— maybe because they are apostates- maybe because they can net her coin. It had seemed an emergency to Bethany to present herself but now it seems silly and she regrets coming, regrets the fabrications concocted to get here.

The trouble began when she found the vial of perfume water on her pillow. Bethany told Marian not to take it from the Antivan goods but Marian had. Bethany wasn’t sure the purpose behind it. She understands how frustrating it is to sweat and bleed for items that would make them rich but she doesn't believe in biting the hand that feeds her. Not that Athenril feeds them but where would they be without her? Locked out, having to outrun the Blight. The vial of perfume if sold, Bethany is sure, is enough to feed them all for weeks. The scent is intoxicating but she can’t risk it- as touched as she is at Marian’s reckless sentiment. Marian has asked her to put it on but Bethany has refused, scrambling to buy time, not wanting to fall under the spell of the fragrance.

"What’s in that book?" Bethany asks with a glance.

"My business. My stock." She folds her arms on the back of a chair and looks at her. Bethany’s apprehension grows until she’s frozen in place. Athenril knows. She must know.

"I took this," she blurts out. She removes the vial from the small satchel at her side and is happy that it’s intact, not a drop spilled or spent. Athenril’s eyes narrow on the object. The lie is easier than admitting that her sister was the culprit. Bethany doesn't think Athenril cares for Marian and does not want to risk their position with her. A complete lie, stating she found it somewhere, saying it was accidentally taken wouldn't fly— not with Athenril and so Bethany lies. Athenril comes to her, feet bare, and delicately tugs it from her fingers. "It was wrong," she says, "I've never had anything beautiful. Nice. I've only ever had second-hand things. Mother always talks of being nobility. For a moment-"

"Stop." Athenril says and Bethany promptly clamps her mouth shut. "You know everyone tries to clip things. They think I won't notice but they get what's theirs one way or another." She uncorks the vial and draws the scent in. "That’s nice. I can see how you’d be tempted." She dabs a bit onto her finger and brings her touch to the back of Bethany’s ears, to the quickening pulse along her wrist. "Those dabs were about a sovereign." She leans closer, face nearly pressed to her neck before withdrawing. "You don't need fancy perfume to smell like nobility, little Hawke." Bethany is rendered speechless. "You know there’s more to this big world than that sister of yours."

"I’m really sorry about all of this." She tries not to focus any longer on Athenril’s words. She isn’t used to someone who isn’t Marian speaking to her like this, making her confused. In Athenril’s world, a silver tongue must be a necessity. It spares lives, ends them, spills coin. "I could understand if..." She bites her tongue, tries to find words. "Is it all right if I go?"

"She’s got a hold on you, huh?" Athenril shakes her head then waves Bethany away, like mangy dog who’s overstayed their welcome.

-

Marian isn't in the room or bath. Bethany returns to the living room, flummoxed. Gamlen and her mother are in the midst of a game of cards, Leandra sighing with every card she plays as if the very act of existing were an unbearable strain.

Gamlen follows her every movement, his eyes fixed on her breasts. If Bethany hopes for her mother to rescue her, she’s disappointed. Leandra is focused not, it would seem, on the cards in front of her but some other life, some alternate reality that is no longer possible. Neither know where Marian is and finally, Gamlen’s leering stare becomes too much and Bethany retires to the bedroom.

The tome Marian is reading on force magic and enchanting is open, one page folded over at the center as if it was left in the middle of a page being turned or moved by the wind.

Hours pass before Marian returns and her relief at seeing Bethany is quickly followed by anger. ‘Where have you been’ and ‘you lied to me’ are thrown out. Bethany isn't sure in what order.

Marian stops mid-lecture to look at her. She comes closer and then, as if shoved begins to search the room. She looks beneath the pillow and mattress, looking through the drawers of the nightstand and beneath the bed itself. "I gave that to you." Marian says. Bethany tries to dislodge the lump in her throat as she tries to sort out any other time that Marian has looked so apoplectic, so heartbroken. "You took it back to her." Marian has always known her best. The point, always a source of pride makes her feel small and predictable now. "It’s the only thing I’ve been able to give you."

Bethany smiles but stops when she sees the wounded expression on her sister’s face. "You’ve given me much more than that."

"You put some on before you returned it," she immediately dismisses the notion as soon as she’s verbalized it. "No. You wouldn’t. She did. And you let her. You let her when you wouldn’t let me."

"It wasn’t ours," she says quietly. Marian only glares at her. Something small and delicate has been displaced and Bethany isn't sure what she did to upset the balance, isn't sure how to get it back. They've never fought before and it leaves them defenseless and vulnerable. Bethany slips closer. "Don’t be angry," she presses her lips to Marian’s, thinned and stiff as opposed to their usual pouty, soft sensuousness. "Please, I can’t stand it."

"Did you let her touch you?"

Bethany doesn't know how Marian has drawn such conclusions from the return of perfumed water but she knows it’s dangerous to let things continue in this way. She must stop her before Marian’s fire blazes and consumes them, reducing them to cinders.

Bethany claims Marian’s mouth, forcing her petulant lips open with her tongue until Marian can no longer resist, can no longer be uninvolved. They kiss carnally and though Marian tries to keep Bethany’s hands at bay, she cannot. Bethany takes the clothes from her, yanking the jerkin from her shoulder, letting it fall with a slap to the floor. A scar runs deep along her side and Bethany kisses it, sorry she was unable to spare her sister the mark. She jerks the pants from Marian’s hips and legs; their tongues tangle as they try to swallow the small moans erupting from them.

The bed is too far away, the four feet necessary to get there seeming like an ocean. Marian grasps her, as if taking something that is hers with no need for gentle caresses and Bethany, now as naked as Marian, presses her to the floor in front of the fireplace.

When she was younger and innocent she imagined romantic things like this. Not with a sister, a noble husband. In a mansion, not with her mother and uncle squabbling in the living room. A flick of her eyes is enough to secure the flimsy hook into the loop on the door.

To have her skin pressed to Marian’s is to be alive. What did Marian mean, did she let Athenril touch her? She did and Bethany didn't have a say in it. She didn’t mind.

In the past Marian had not allowed this. She has, at Bethany’s urging, touched herself beneath blankets, making herself climax, letting Bethany watch until she ached and hurt with desire for her.

Now, no longer restricted, she wants them to touch and fuse in the most intimate way she knows how. Men have appendages, to interlock with women. Bethany’s seen diagrams in medical books. She doesn't want one and thinks that she and Marian look fine as they are- but oh to connect in that way with Marian...!

The thoughts strike her as naive as she spreads Marian’s legs and settles between them. When their cores touch, Bethany shakes and takes a sharp breath. Pleasure, intense, slippery and incendiary blazes through her. Marian cries out, so loud, so longingly that Bethany thinks she’s hurt her, hears their mother ask if everything’s all right.

Marian’s eyes are half-closed, lips parted, cheeks flushed red. Her directionless, unfocused eyes are simultaneously bright and sharp like diamonds.

"Everything’s fine," Bethany says and though her voice is a little breathless, she thinks it’s a worthy enough performance, although she hates her, she hates her mother then for interrupting their union, their first one that feels complete and real, even.

She puts her out of her mind. Their mother doesn’t have the guts to force open the door nor does she have the energy to care about her daughters’ experiences. They can continue.

Bethany seals Marian’s mouth shut again, tongues flicking against one another’s and they moan softly, whimper as heat cascades over them as they pivot their hips slowly in rhythm. It’s like a dance, some bittersweet, dizzying ballad. Their hands lace tightly and all of that distance that has been growing between them is obliterated in the moment.

*

Marian is becoming devout in her studies, delving into the tomes, only rarely making some snarky remark about the work.  Bethany is grateful. Bethany was always diligent with their father’s lessons- partly because Malcolm had instilled the fear of how dangerous a mage unchecked could be and also to mollify his temper when Marian failed to meet expectations. If Marian resented her for it she hid it well.

Whether Marian is unwilling to properly learn the fine methods of magical control or whether her abilities are simply more latent, Bethany doesn't know. She has never spoken poorly of her gift, only ever seeming uninterested in it. ‘We’ll never be our own persons, you know. All our lives we’ll be slave to something we had no control over.’ Bethany tries not to think of it that way, whenever she gives it thought, her mood becomes foul and dark and there’s enough of that to go around.

Athenril has another job planned but Marian has once again, put it off until the last minute. Bethany is reassured that she’s studying. It'll be safer for all parties involved. Some part of her fears all the studying in the world will be no use if she doesn't have a proper attitude to match. Another part of her fears thinking that way— it sounds like something their father and mother might say.

Bethany drapes her arms around Marian’s shoulders, nibbling along her earlobe before resting her chin in the crook of Marian’s neck. Marian pushes the book back. The scar on her face is nearly healed but Bethany doesn't mention it. Does Marian see the scars as failures? In some ways her older sister is cryptic and secretive about her thoughts. "There’s a job tonight. Aveline will be there."

"Why didn't you mention it before?"

"You were there," Bethany pulls away enough to graze her lips along her neck. Marian gives a soft little sigh before their lips touch. "I believe you were eager to get me back here."

"It must have been the first time I was eager to come home."

"I was eager to come, too," Bethany says saucily, getting a smile from her often sullen sister. Marian has grown to dislike Athenril greatly. What was initially resentment for a year of servitude has turned into something far more personal. Often she has spoken of accumulating the necessary coin to repay the debt but this is fanciful thinking— there’s no way they could get that kind of coin.

Of course, Marian’s jealousy, as sour and bitter as it must be has brought the sisters to a more even footing as they have taken to dominating one another in the bedroom as opposed to Marian’s former, almost prudish advances. The last time they encountered Athenril and got the necessary job, Marian dragged her straight to the bedroom, pressed her to the door, peeling Bethany’s pants away before dropping to her knees in front of her, taking her into her mouth until Bethany could scarcely speak, let alone think or breathe. Her knees nearly buckled from the attentions.

Anyway, she’d nearly forgotten the assignment too but luckily Aveline was there, to remind her in her usual grim fashion. The work is beneath her and not ‘in line with the work of the guard’. Still, Aveline is no doubt a good woman but one who judges the sisters for their talents. Maybe it's the reason they won't allow themselves to grow close to her.

"You weren't going to go without me," Marian says but her reserved tone indicates she's worried, that it’s a question. "You know I don't like her."

"I do," she says and sees Marian’s eyes darken, "but I love you. She’s not so bad," she lifts her chin to meet her eyes, "and she’s not you."

Marian stares at her. She stands and dons her armor, gathering the tools necessary to do battle. Once again Bethany feels something invisible and cold between them. Maker, how do people do this?

*

Marian’s magic improves and with it so does her attitude, albeit in a superficial way. Bethany knows when Marian is putting on a show and when she’s being sincere. It's likely that Athenril knows too but Marian is talking like a leader. Maybe part of that is wanting to show Bethany that there is more to her, that she is capable of pulling her act together. Whatever Athenril’s opinion, she once again turns her attention to the older Hawke sister, ignoring the younger one as they plot out jobs. Marian has a few devious ideas of her own, using Aveline as a fine distraction during some of them. Bethany wavers between being appalled and feeling confident that Marian can handle any situation, no matter what dubious manner is chosen to achieve its mean.

The absence of Athenril’s inquisitive but often-times unreadable gaze twists into Bethany’s side like a corkscrew, Athenril’s hand clapping around Marian’s arm in approval enough to make her dizzy and nauseous.

Marian never acknowledges any contact, not in a way that would make Bethany worry but her face has lost a good deal of shadows and angularity. Marian has perhaps begun to sense that being at odds with Athenril is not the best way to repair the quickening splinters that have begun to settle over her relationship with Bethany.

Normally, Bethany would invite Athenril for dinner but she knows what opinions her uncle and mother would have. Athenril was meant to get them into the city and nothing more. A respected smuggler is still a smuggler and both sisters have heard Leandra and Gamlen’s off-color remarks about ‘knife-ears’ much to the sisters’, but particularly Bethany’s shame.

Bethany wants to spend more time with Athenril, fascinated by the unknown entity. She’s never had friends. Neither sister has ever had anyone but each other. Friends were a desire impossible to realize and now here a possibility presents itself.

Of course, Athenril can’t ever be a friend, not truly. She’s a shrewd businesswoman and friendship, Bethany thinks, is something more like a take and give relationship. She’s read about that sort of things in tattered books. Athenril could only ever take. Maybe that’s her nature, had to be her nature, much like she and Marian have only ever been taught to give, maybe as some penance for the burden they’ve brought on their dwindling family. You can’t blame nature.

Marian, had she sensed Bethany’s thoughts, might suggest striking a friendship with Aveline. Bethany doesn't dislike the woman; after all she had been the one to urge her now departed Wesley to not hunt her or Marian. Still, the woman is older and severe, not taken to smiles that aren’t the result of justice. There’s something to her experiences that Bethany can’t touch, can’t know and Aveline, sensing this, regards her as a child. Who can confide in a child? Bethany thinks of how she would sometimes find Marian in tears, face buried in her hands, unwilling to tell her what the matter was. Bethany would stroke her back in much the same way she had seen her mother do to her father.

Some feet away, Athenril and Marian are engaged in conversation, Athenril shaking her head no to whatever plan Marian has proposed. Barely restrained ire touches Marian’s face and Athenril walks away from her as if needing to create space between them. She nearly smacks into Bethany but stops short of her. "Anyone ever tell you your sister’s a bit of a maniac, little Hawke?" Bethany hates the nickname. She looks down at Athenril’s bare feet and wonders how elves can wander in cold cobblestone and the filthy streets of Lowtown and Hightown. "This is going to take all night. Tell me you have better things to do."

"Wouldn't you consider that time theft or something?" And Bethany delights in the unexpected smile she provokes. "I won’t let Marian do all the work."

"You tell her that?" There’s a beat. "There is something you can do for me. More of a one-person thing. I need someone with a certain air to them and it looks like Elegant and your sister are in some kind of tiff?" Bethany couldn't hide her surprise if she wanted to. "Anyway," she says noticing but choosing not to comment, "it's a simple job. A pickup, nothing more. I wouldn't risk you."

"And have all that flow of coin come to an end?" She can be realistic about her value and not be offended by it. "I would say not."

"Smart girl," Athenril practically purrs. She looks her over, like examining goods, valuable, beautiful goods. Electricity pulses through Bethany and she doesn't know whether it’s actual magic or something more. Marian's eyes are on them; Bethany pretends not to notice. "So, what do you say? Or should I give you a minute to talk it over with big sis?"

"I don't have to talk to her about everything," Bethany says defensively. But she only says so because she has come to be perceived as predictable. Something about consistency is usually read as dull. If Athenril hadn't made the comment, Bethany would have spoken to Marian. But she’s eighteen years old. She doesn't need to run everything by her anymore. "I’ll do it."

"Good girl," Athenril’s eyes skirt over hers. She gives her the details and an envelope on thick stock, sealed with wax. "Now run along. Return here with what I want."

Bethany slips away, flush with the excitement of independence, of rebellion.


	4. Chapter 4

Marian is still debating with Athenril when Bethany returns at the late hour. It is a surprise to still see her there. Some part of her thought the delivery was all some elaborate ruse of Athenril’s to get her alone- a prospect that made Bethany anxious if not a little giddy. Yet here Marian is and Bethany can’t meet her gaze. She is angry at Marian and burns with humiliation.

Marian, feeling more warmly towards her, greets her at the door, shooting a vicious look at Athenril and taking Bethany’s shoulders. "You shouldn't have gone without me. It’s dangerous. I don’t give a damn if she got us into the city, you are not her errand girl." Bethany glares at a wall, the envelope with Elegant’s prettily handwritten letter inside. Marian says her name and Bethany forces herself to face her. Marian’s eyes bore into hers, her thumbs gently stroking her shoulders, the material of her clothing cold from the night. "Is everything all right?"

Things aren’t. She made it to Elegant’s quickly enough. Bethany was grateful that the first errand Athenril sent her on was in a part of Lowtown that was safer than others. It wasn’t Elegant who opened the door, it was an elf, handsome and slender the way they all seem to be.

The house was warm with the glow of candles and though it wasn’t as tidy as Athenril’s place, it was bigger and well maintained. Bethany had only met Elegant a handful of times. If Aveline seemed removed then Elegant was more so. She dresses above her station and carries herself like nobility. ’Why do they call her Elegant? It’s not her name, is it?' Marian laughed bitterly at the question months ago but made no attempt to answer it.

The elf scurried away to retrieve his ‘mistress’ and Bethany stood awkwardly in the living room, studying the small paintings that hung in the walls, the curious books that bow the bookshelves. Eventually she was summoned upstairs and down a skinny hallway before the elf led her to a bedroom larger than Bethany had ever seen. The light had a salmon tinge to it and Bethany stood uncomfortably as Elegant sat up from the bed, dressed in a short, thin robe. They both looked as if they were mistaken.

"Bethany Hawke." The astonishment was in her voice. Elegant is the only one that seems to call her by her given name but Bethany has never come to like her. Elegant turns her nose up at her and Marian and often condescends to them when they're forced to work together. Athenril says there’s money in the potions game but Elegant’s fist seems more tightly clenched than Athenril’s. "I usually work with Hawke."

"I'm a Hawke, too," she said curtly. Ever since they came to Kirkwall she’s been relegated to second fiddle. Is this how Marian and Carver always felt? It’s terrible. She’s just as capable. Elegant glided off the bed and Bethany couldn’t help but get a look at her well-defined legs. Elegant noticed, smiled in a sweet, sardonic way and snatched the letter from Bethany. She dissected the wax seal with her eyes before instructing Bethany to fetch her the letter opener. It wasn’t in the desk and Elegant sighed, going to the chest at the foot of her bed, kneeling and opening it. Bethany heard her say 'Hawke’ but Elegant ignored her when she asked. Her curiosity getting the better of her, Bethany peered into the chest. There were potions, colorful bottles of what looked like oils. A sort of...phallic device with what looks like some kind of harness. And a red scarf. She stepped forward, trying to reclaim it but Elegant thought she’s looking at the smoothed, leather phallus. That time Elegant smirked and Bethany felt a deep flush crawl up her neck, until it reached her cheeks, scalding.  "Guess which end your sister prefers to be on," Elegant said with a smile. Bethany would have slapped her if she wasn’t stunned. She found the letter opener and shut the chest as if closing any debate that might be had about the contents.

She rose gracefully and opens the sealed envelope with little ceremony carefully withdrawing the letter and drank its contents. She looked at Bethany anew, in a new light and Bethany hated her, she hated her eyes that look kind and her illusions of nobility and manners and culture. She was a fraud. A fraud like Marian.

Bethany touched her neck, feeling the heat through her fingers, the anger and hurt that rolled like thunder through her as Elegant dipped a quill in ink and wrote in response to whatever was in Athenril’s letter. Elegant finished and signed the letter with flourish. Her beauty was classical, like that in an old painting. She is old. Older than Aveline, her eyes warm despite the winter in her smiles. "Send my greetings to Athenril," she told her, extending the envelope at enough distance that Bethany had to go to her to get it.

"I can return my sister’s scarf," she said too sharply, snatching the letter.

Elegant was nonplussed. "I’ve a few other things for her. Tell her it was all a misunderstanding."

Bethany nodded her head bitterly and returned to Athenril’s. Marian grips her shoulders still, her sapphire, lying eyes set in concern. "Elegant wanted me to deliver a message to Athenril. In private."

Bethany sees the sting in Marian’s eyes before Athenril inclines her head to the door, her silent instruction for her to leave. "I won’t go without Bethany," she says firmly and looks to her for support. Bethany doesn't look at her.

"You’ll go now," Athenril says. She pushes the door open and Marian wordlessly tries to make Bethany look at her but she doesn't. She releases her and exits, slamming the door behind her. Athenril crosses her arms and leans against the wall. Bethany gives her Elegant’s letter. Athenril takes it wordlessly, ripping it open. Bethany appreciates that she doesn't hunt for a letter opener. Athenril reads and then nods, folding it in half and stuffing it into the envelope haplessly. "Elegant doesn't pass on messages by word of mouth. She loves her own signature too much. Bitch has always liked to show off," she throws the letter on the desk. "If you need a breather from your sister, take a few." Athenril sits at the round wooden table. It’s weathered, lacking any newness and shine. It's more honest. Bethany sits beside her- twiddling her fingers.

The silence between them is palpable. Bethany wishes Athenril would look at her, speak to her. Marian is the only one who seems to treat her like an adult. ’Did you let her touch you?’ Marian asked. What did she let Elegant do to her, the hypocrite?

"Bethany." It’s the first time Athenril’s said her name aloud. Bethany’s heart pounds. She looks at her, is glad she’s sitting. "You’re not bad. But I’m not Elegant. I don’t mix business with pleasure. Nothing personal." She stands, touches her shoulder and opens the door, sending her the same way she sent her sister.

 

* * *

 

"He keeps coming in here. He’s got the timing down just right. Soon as the knickers come off he’s here. He’s always terribly sorry. Why don’t I lock the sodding door, he says. I have. I'm sure he’s buggered it, the bastard." Marian shifts in the tub, causing some water to lick over the edges. "Does he do it to you?"

Bethany momentarily forgets her anger. Marian speaks of Gamlen’s intrusions unfeelingly, as if it were nothing more than a pesky rat scurrying across the floor. Bethany considers that he isn't too far different, family or not. "He looks at me as if I were meat."

"Who wouldn’t?" Her tone is jovial but her eyes are flat. For weeks Bethany has been seething over Elegant but what does she know about it? She only has feeling that buries into the pit if her stomach like a boulder. When she forgets about Elegant, she can look at Marian the way she did before. When she remembers the pain is no less cutting, no less cold. Marian makes bad jokes but Bethany doesn't let them affect her. She knows she couldn't really mean those things.

"Have you told Mother?"

"She battles with rising out of bed," then she shrugs, noncommitally. "What can he do, really?"

What he could do and what he will do are different things. That must be what drives people to madness. What Elegant and Marian might do is different from what they will do. What she and Athenril might do is different from what they will do. Not that Athenril thinks that way. Bethany admires her for being different before the shame at seeking someone who is unlike her bites her like a slap. "It’s not right." Marian straightens her back along the tub. Bethany touches her leg. It’s silken beneath the water. She thinks of her foolish, what she thought, as a woman, would be entirely impossible whimsy of intersecting with Marian. "Did you fuck her? ‘Lady’ Elegant?"

The word shocks Marian, hurts her. Bethany’s rarely thought the word, much less said it aloud. Elegant’s no lady. If she were she wouldn't go so out of her way to present as one. Bethany tries not to pity herself overly. She has wanted and been denied what Marian has found: someone not like them, someone with an air of mystery. It isn't that she doesn't want or love Marian. Far from it. Bethany wonders how people live with such doubt. She never imagined anything would be more difficult than their lessons but life crops up to test them. Their brother, dead, their lecherous uncle, their depressed mother, unexpected, unpredictable feelings that turn her stomach.

"She’s getting married," Marian tells her and then adds, with a smile that implies that Bethany is meant to share in the amusement, "she thinks it’s serious."

"Is it?" She knows she has both her answers with Marian’s deflection. Bethany continues to stroke her leg. Marian turns her head, staring at the door as if waiting for Gamlen. She sniffles once and then again, though her eyebrows aren't twisted in any thought or pain. "Are you in love with her?" The words are stuck in her throat and only just barely scrape out.

"No."

She doesn't look at her. Marian isn't shy or particularly withdrawn. Bethany waits for the anxiety to flit away the instant the question is answered but it remains. Bethany pulls her limbs to herself and Marian looks at her when Bethany’s contact is withdrawn. "She’s older than both of us."

"Like Athenril." Marian says agreeably.

A spike of guilt. "Older."

"She’s a good listener." Marian takes a deep breath and exhales it shakily. "She’s got crumpets and biscuits. Not rock hard, either. Decent tea." Bethany’s eyes burn but she can’t identify why pressure is building in her chest and throat. "I should have brought you some. I don’t know why I didn't think of it. I didn't think you’d want any, maybe." Bethany rubs her forehead and eyes, thinking of possibilities that created a distraction. Her throat is clenched. "Bethany." Marian takes her hands from the water, staring at the fingers wrinkled by the water. She smiles. Bethany is close to snapping at her but she’s drawn closer in the small, cramped tub. Its corners are chopping, the claw feet rusting but the water is clear.

Bethany straddles her, dangling her arms along Marian’s shoulders. The paranoia of before has dwindled to almost nothing. They hear a creak, as if the bathroom door were being prodded open but they don't look away from one another. Marian’s wet, slippery arms wrap around her frame. Bethany rests her cheek along her shoulder, exhaling softly, tiredly. Marian’s fingers scratch along her back and Bethany closes her eyes, thinking it silly she was ever angry at all.

"Our year of servitude is up," Marian breathes into her ear, like some sweet nothing.  Bethany tenses. Marian’s brushes along her back continue. "You must be so happy."

Bethany isn’t sure whether she exhales.

* * *

 

Bethany is thinking of Athenril, naked beneath her when the letter flutters down on the lumpy, thin mattress. She half-turns on her side to pick the paper up. Marian untangles the red-scarf from her shoulders, draping it on the back of the chair. Her face is bruised, her neck scraped red and raw.

They know people now, have associates that are working with them for one reason or another, all of them needing something, just as she and Marian need help to take care of the necessary jobs that pay. They need the coin for the Deep Roads Expedition.

Marian doesn't always take her and Bethany has a number of reasons to be grateful. She has some time to see Athenril but something more: despite Marian’s intense studies, despite her control over magic, her spells aren't very strong. Seeing her get up time and time again despite the blows she takes is a heartbreaking affair. Bethany can’t concentrate and Marian always seems to accumulate more injuries when she’s near, fixated on Bethany’s health. "What happened?" She asks, envelope in hand. Marian rubs the back of her neck. "Bandits?"

"Slavers. I’ve had my fill of them." She collapses onto the weary wooden chair and stares straight ahead into nothing. The grime on the window only allows the palest light in and Marian is awash in a faded yellow of a setting sun.

"Was Fenris with you?" Bethany knows the pleasure he takes in executing them.

"He was. I like that little magic trick of his. I never thought I’d see so many pulsing hearts clenched in a fist." She considers. "It’s very material, isn't it? Literal. Literally ripping someone’s heart out."

"Is there something you’re getting at?"

She shrugs and then shrugs out of the light armor she wears. "Elegant got married." She rolls her eyes. Bethany heard the news from Athenril and assumed Marian already knew. "You don't have to be jealous anymore."

"But you do," she says bitingly. Marian pulls the sleeves away from her arms. They're dotted in colorful bruises. Bethany regrets adding insult to injury.

"Don’t let Athenril talk you into jobs with no pay. We can’t afford that anymore and we paid many times over for the trouble of getting us into the city. You’ve always been a bit of a sap for her."

"You know she doesn’t trust you? Your influence?" Bethany meets Marian’s frosty gaze. She’s trying to get a reaction out of her. They both are. They're attempting to one-up one another. They never let their father or Carver pit them against each other and yet here they are, breathing down each other’s necks. It hasn't always been a bad thing.

“So now Athenril delivers lessons on morality and you accept them?” She smiles quizzically. “You don’t find that at all ironic?”

Bethany’s heart thumps. Her face reddens. Athenril has implied that she and Marian are too close. She always disregarded it. There is no such thing as being too close to a sister. Marian isn’t just flesh and blood. She’s more. Lately she needles under her skin making her hot and uncomfortable, making her want to lash out like some wounded animal. “Why should I?” She gets another shrug in response. “Is that all you do anymore?”

She thinks of rising from the bed and pressing kisses to her bruises, healing her—because Marian has always been piss poor at healing spells. Still, the anger that has come like a barrier between them lately resurfaces again and Bethany finds herself feeling too proud to do it. She can get kisses from Athenril. Marian can get them from bloody Elegant. She decides to make peace between them. “You’ll take me out next time you go out adventuring, won’t you?”

“If you’re suitable, I don’t see why not,” topless, save for the chest cloth she wears, she exits the bedroom with a towel slung over her shoulder. Bethany bristles but contains her anger. She takes a breath and picks up the letter.

She recognizes it as Athenril’s handwriting.

_I don’t care what’s going on with you and Hawke. Business is business. Maybe you don’t trust her but trust me. I’ve sent little Hawke to you tonight—call it a gesture of good will. She’s the one who brings in the coin and I’ve sent her to you unaware. If you want to cripple my business, go ahead and kill her. But you’ll be cutting your nose to spite your face. I won’t go after you but I’ll make sure to drag your business down with me. If we can play nice, send a letter in response. If not, kill her. I’ll miss her pretty face. And you’ll miss Hawke’s._

It’s dated the night Athenril asked her to run the pickup job. Bethany’s face hardens. Her chest burns. Energy pulses from her. She shouldn’t be surprised. She isn’t. She’s disappointed that Athenril is the person she says she is. She’s angry that Marian insisted on proving the point. Marian returns not long after, hair and skin glistening with water, fresh from the bath.

Bethany balls up the piece of paper and chucks it at her. It hits Marian’s arm before bouncing to the floor. She looks at it, Bethany and then laughs. Bethany jumps from the bed. She stands close but there is no sexual charge between them the way there usually is—or if there is, it has twisted into something dark and vindictive. Bethany remembers when it was shelter. She remembers when Marian was shelter. “What do you get out of this?” she asks. The teasing smile is still on Marian’s lips. “You like hurting me.”

“It ‘hurts’ you?” Marian asks incredulously. She takes her arm. Bethany rips it away easily. Marian’s grip has never been very strong, not while wet anyway. Her power comes from something else, deeper, intangible, unbreakable. Marian looks at her hand helplessly. She stoops to pick up the letter and unfolds it, attempting to hand it to Bethany.

Bethany is torn between slapping her and forcing her to the bed to fuck her thoroughly. Unable to decide, she exits instead.

* * *

 

Bethany can’t stifle the tears or the violent shaking that rocks her. Is it possible to suppress such sorrow? Marian has broken the most sacred of vows of trust, of morality. She has turned to blood magic. Oh, it’d be one thing if Merrill had reported it or maybe Fenris but for Aveline to come to her, for Varric and Anders to say that they have seen it with their own two eyes. ‘Her fighting’s got bite to it. Mind you, a demon won’t stop until it’s swallowed you whole’. Anders had been repulsed and Bethany had been angry at him, had been angry at all of them. Truths can be uncomfortable to face. Why had they told her? Not to hurt and shame her, surely. To have her change Marian’s mind?

Worst of all, Bethany isn’t sure whether what has her distraught is Marian’s turn towards dark forces or how Marian chose to not disclose the matter. Maybe, Bethany thinks, her constant pushing for stronger magic forced Marian in that direction. Or perhaps it was their father’s rabid opposition that made the matter enticing for her. ‘Maleficarum aren’t worth the air they breathe. Putting them down like the rabid dogs they are is a courtesy.’

Marian never actively spited their father. That would have meant an effort. He would have been happy to see all the ways he got to her but she never wanted to give him the satisfaction. But Marian mounted her rebellions. Bethany remembers the first time they kissed. It was so long ago. Their lips shook; they shivered as if having been dropped in ice water. Bethany never thinks it wrong though their father would certainly disapprove, would think Marian was taking advantage. Bethany thinks of the times she inadvertently (?) played the coquette. She was happy when Marian kissed her, thrilled for her attention.

To think that it was only an act against their father burns. But she can’t believe that. Marian wouldn’t use her feelings, their feelings. Those are sacred. Marian loves her, despite how poorly she shows it at times. Guilt gnaws at Bethany, resenting the little faith she has recently placed in her. Marian has accomplished harrowing tasks. She had a lot of help but she accomplished them all the same, on her merits. She will not be jealous that people look to Marian. If, Bethany thinks, people think to overlook her, to not regale her for her own talents and contributions, then she cannot become bitter for it. She must be humble. Prideful mages fall.

Marian enters the room and Bethany dies inside, tries to stop the choking sobs but seeing her at her side, overwhelmed with concern, the adoration, the love in her eyes so unquestionable, Bethany feels herself a monster and the tears come faster. It’s a horrible thing if Marian has turned to blood magic but no matter how sinful the act, Marian is not bad. Marian is just… well, she doesn’t know. Misguided, maybe? Lost. “Has something happened?” Marian asks; her thumbs ease the tears from her face. “Is it Mother?” then, more reluctantly. “Is it Athenril?”

Bethany touches the dagger at Marian’s waist. She grips the handle and removes it from the sheath. The blade is red. “Is it yours?” she asks quietly. Marian tries to pull away but Bethany holds on tight. “Why?” Marian wrenches loose this time but doesn’t leave the bed. “You’ve ruined yourself.”

“You would say that. You know, you’re just like him.” She stands, turning her back to her, wiping her face with her hand. Bethany goes cold. She doesn’t need to ask whom she’s referring to. Damn it. Damn her. The difficulty with knowing someone so thoroughly is their complete ability to destroy you. “I suppose you want me to show you the cuts?”

She had wanted to see. Marian only comes to her at night now, has recently refused to share baths. Bethany wondered if she’d caused some offense, other than the standard. Now it all makes sense. “No.”

“Really?”

Bethany wipes the tears from her eyes and sniffles. Tears are drying and caking to her cheeks. She must look a mess. Marian picks up the chair in front of the desk, turns it so that it faces Bethany and slams it down before taking a seat across from her. “Do you want to know what it’s like?” she asks, her tone seductive. Another cold ripple runs through Bethany, making her shiver. If anyone could make her turn to such nefarious means, it would be Marian who can talk her into anything. How strange that she can be so many things to her at once, an inviting terror.

“You won’t tell me why?”

“If you never believe anything else that I ever tell you, believe this: you wouldn’t want to know.”

The words stab her with certainty. Bethany knows that she’s behind this somehow and is too afraid to ask why. She knows too, more absently, that she can’t take responsibility for Marian’s actions. She can’t. But she can’t absolve herself of the responsibility and revel in the other times she has influenced Marian to her liking. Bethany bows her head, hands buried in her hair as she tries to breathe, desperately seeking some sense of calm. She hates herself but knows how much more she’d regret it if she didn’t ask. “What’s it like?”

Marian smiles, takes Bethany’s hand, presses a kiss to her wrist. “It’s adrenaline, bursting through your veins. It’s the electricity of our every kiss. The pleasure of your every touch,” her lips graze along Bethany’s neck, “it’s looking into the eye of the Maker and saying ‘you are no god’. And if he is, then so am I.” Bethany’s breath, strained, breaks and she inhales sharply. “Do you want to feel it?” Bethany stares straight ahead. “Father thought I was rubbish but he didn’t see me like this,” she smiles bitter-sweetly. “Everyone has to be good at something. You’re too good for it. Too strong. The better of us, always. But I can show you,” her lips whisper along Bethany’s, “let me show you.”

Marian puts the knife in her hand and Bethany, as if possessed, takes it, drawing it along Marian’s palm. It’s all right because she can heal her. It’s all right because Marian would never let anything happen to her. And Bethany wants to understand. It seems like for so long now she hasn’t been able to understand. The blood comes to the surface in a diagonal, bright and red. Marian takes Bethany’s hand, kisses it, bites it, breaks her skin.

She’s savage. And then their hands are clamped together, blood flowing down their palms, down their wrists and Bethany can see her, feel her, hear her, in Marian’s mind. They communicate without speaking a word. Bethany feels the terror of the unshackled, of the free, her spirit soaring, her mind and body soaked in pleasure.

_Do you see it? Can you feel it? Know it, how I love you?_ Marian asks. And yes, she can. It’s unquestionable. Undeniable. Overpowering. It buries her. Bethany struggles to stay afloat. She squeezes Marian’s hand tighter. In their mind, they claim each other, feral and wild. Their physical bodies remain immobile, hands still linked as ecstasy, one that surpasses that of their physical union, floods them.

_This is dangerous._ Bethany thinks but no matter the fear, there is a small undercurrent of excitement. Maybe, she thinks, the safety she thought they had was always imagined. Why want something ordinary with Marian? She couldn’t have it, even if she wanted to.

* * *

Their tent is removed from the others. The size of the Deep Roads Expedition party and their relationship makes it easy for them to distance themselves from the group. Bethany’s lost count of how many days they’ve been traveling. The Deep Roads are enormous and more unpleasant even, than Bethany anticipated. Both sisters are relatively quiet throughout, leaving the talking to Varric and Bartrand. The darkspawn are a loathed enemy and Bethany is filled with thoughts of Carver. If Marian’s jaw, set hard is any indication, so is she.

Fortunately they seem to be doing well enough. They’re surviving and that’s the best they can hope for. Bodahn provides supplies and the other muttering hirelings of the expedition watch both Hawke sisters without trying to hide their keen interest. Bethany is certain none would turn down a tumble if asked but they’re not the ones she’s interested in.

The Deep Roads are cold. It’s the swallowing cold of the grave. Fighting keeps them warm. So does fucking. Marian is in front of her on all fours, Bethany’s fingers twined through her hair, the fingers of her other hand thrusting into Marian, easing out to stroke her before sliding in again. Marian swears and Bethany cups her breasts, fingers teasing along her nipples, pressing kisses to her ear and neck, her back. Marian hisses her name softly.

The days on the expedition are long and unforgiving. They both know they should be getting rest but these moments seem more important, this physical expression of the love they have for one another.

It’s different than Kirkwall. Bethany realizes, here, secluded from most of the world, that she hates the city. That she hates what it has done to them. They were better before. Purer before. It was the two of them against the world. They were always outsiders, even in their own family.

Marian shifts. _I want to look at you._ They face one another, a leg thrown over the other’s hip and draw together. Bethany exhales slowly, eyes heavy lidded as sparks flow through her. Bethany hadn’t even known women could do this sort of thing. She mentally thanks Isabela’s books and drawings for the pleasure ~~.~~ Bethany likes that Marian’s breath hitches as much as her own. Why was she ever jealous of Elegant? Why was Marian ever jealous of Athenril? What are they, were they, other than experiments? Marian kisses her neck, her collarbone, her breasts but Bethany finds her lips, wanting her mouth, wanting all of her.

They always move like the flame, flickering, wavering before bursting into light. They kiss aggressive and desperate. They go at it for hours. It always feels new and familiar. They make up for lost time. Bethany teases Marian until she begs. Marian is helpless against her. Marian who is too proud to ask anyone for anything.

Their kisses slow and deepen before becoming only suggestions. They press to each other, Bethany folded up in Marian’s arms. Marian is a taciturn with the rest of the group, now and then she’ll make the odd joke, other times she’s gratingly direct. With Bethany her voice is soft, her touch light as a feather and she tells her over and over again how she loves her. Bethany never tires of hearing it.

She lies on her back, not minding the hardness of the ground, hardly seeming to notice it. Marian trails kisses between her breasts, along her stomach, lower and they begin again. When they are truly worn—and Bethany has begun to get a bit of a headache in the past few days, feel a bit tired, they bundle up beneath the sheets, looking at one another.

“Do you think we’ll get rich down here?” Bethany asks.

Marian shrugs. “Do you know I don’t care about that old estate?” She smiles faintly, inching closer, rubbing Bethany’s leg gently. “I would have left it to the slavers but it means a lot to you.”

“And Mother.”

Her eyes flicker in response. “Lady Bethany Hawke. You’ll have nice dresses and perfumes. Hightown will love you. All of Kirkwall will.” She closes her eyes and sighs softly. “Things were so much easier in Lothering.” There’s a long silence. Bethany kisses her cheek, her forehead, her lips. Her speech is restored. “In a lot of ways, I feel as if I lost you here. Not here,” she clarifies, “Kirkwall.”

“You never did.”

“Everyone looks to me as if I know what I’m doing. But what am I doing? I’m only doing what I think is best for us. Do you remember how small Father was when he died? He had this look in his eye—like he knew it was all over for us. As if I wouldn’t be able to provide. Things have happened. Maybe he was right. Maker, I hated him.” Bethany takes her hand. “You know, you’ve looked a little pale.”

“Anyone would, buried underground.”

“Mh.” She strokes her hair. “I know it’s silly and selfish of me. Do you know how I hated that life before you were born? I couldn’t know anyone. Lessons and magic and moving. That’s all there was. You came and… it felt like I could do something right. Take care of something important. It was only the two of us. Even with Carver it felt…”

“I know.”

“Everyone’s different here. Resourceful. Independent.” She shakes her head, considers. “I saw the way your eyes lit up when we got to know Athenril. Suddenly I wasn’t the smartest person you knew, the most interesting, the most dangerous.” She runs a finger along Bethany’s arm. “But you’ve always been the most dangerous to me.”

“Says the maleficarum,” Bethany says lightly. She takes Marian’s lips again in a lingering, drowsy kiss that leaves her lightheaded. “Whatever happens, it’ll be you and me. We’ll leave the Deep Roads. We’ll have the life we choose.” Trouble touches Marian’s face and Bethany tries desperately to wipe the worry there. “We’ll be together.” She takes a breath. “You’re the only one for me,” she confesses softly. Marian looks at her, then away as if overwhelmed with emotion. She takes Bethany’s fingers and kisses them. “What’s the matter? Have I said too much?”

She shakes her head. “You know I feel the same.”

She does. Bethany saw into her mind. She’s read books on blood magic. Always felt uncomfortable about researching the topic before Marian became involved in the dark practice. But from her studies, it seems as if blood magic is often abused to tread unseen into unsuspecting minds. Marian used it differently; she invited Bethany into hers. She wonders if she’s as guilty of blood magic as Marian is. “Then what’s wrong?” She clears her throat, ignoring the scratch there.

“Life. It’s bloody terrifying, isn’t it? It isn’t what you want or what you plan. It’s where you’re at, it’s the lot that’s handed to you. What you are, who you are. Good, bad, doesn’t matter.” She turns onto her back. “It keeps me up at night.”

Bethany slides closer to her, draping an arm around her waist. She listens to her steady heartbeat, is lifted by the rise and fall of her chest. Marian’s always called herself a realist. Bethany never minded but the words are enough to shake her. Feverish and exhausted, she tries to stay awake, afraid to fall into a nightmare.

 

* * *

* * *

 

A/N: Whoops. So years later someone tells me to update this and I do. Only one chapter left? I suck. But man, am I a sucker for these two. Human garbage?


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